Soothing Out
by nekyja
Summary: Sirius Black and his crumbling inside.


i.

The moon was in anorexic state. Only tall streetlamps that rose above the pavements were the remaining source of cold brightness. Autumn was leaving. Winter, on the other hand, was strolling pleasantly down the streets of London. It wasn't December yet, but in a couple of minutes November would have to back away. Oh, how he hated December.

It was quiet. Too quiet, as a matter of fact. People in the number of two were almost running to catch the last bus. Even cats that were supposed to be night creatures weren't there. Not surprisingly, only a flutter of wings could be heard when a lone owl with a bound letter flew above his head. He stood there, waiting for something to happen. Or someone to appear.

He thought that falling snow looks like big lumps of sugar. But sugar isn't bitter like snow. Perhaps, snow might be like salt. It indeed is crystalline-like. Or, when it has already fallen, it may resemble cotton wool.

He wanted to go to bed now. On his way, he was imagining, he would grab a cup of hot tea and then, after burying himself under warm blanket, he would think. What to do next? What is the point? What is going to happen to everyone? Then his thoughts would change the course. He would remind himself in his head not to forget to wake Moony up in the morning, not to forget to find money for something to eat, not to forget…

Falling snow looks like dust. Stardust. Heavendust. Airdust. Everythingdust.

ii.

From time to time, a world would shudder. Just a little, so that one could feel it standing on the ground. But not as much as to make everything tremble.

From time to time Sirius wants to shudder, too. To tremble a bit. To shake himself up. But he knows he cannot. This is not the place, nor the time. But there are milliseconds when he allows himself to lose control. And he is aware of the fact that he should not. This is not the place, not the time to do such things.

He is nineteen years old. Some might say that being nineteen is still being a child under the manly appearance. Others might question this statement and stick to the opinion that nineteen is the high-time of leaving childhood behind and facing the reality. A person could suggest that it is not at all shameful to cry when one looses the strength and will to carry on while being nineteen. But years of upbringing in the Black Family and among many expectations might scream into the face that only the weak and the meaningless crumble.

Life for him was not supposed to be a temporary job. Life was not meant to be categorized as something that is created with passion and ended with silent agreement or understanding. Life, as he pictured it when he was a young and hopeful boy, was to be a crazy adventure where he could piece by piece learn it. Now it is only a matter of time when he starts to cling to it like a frightened child to a mother's skirt. He would now try desperately to reach and grab his dreams that are escaping somewhere between reality and fear.

And his world shudders once more. But this time it does not bring deliverance. It brings loosing of touch. He knows by know that only the skilled tamer can learn the animal not to bite and scratch. And he knows too that he is not able to tame the hysterical pace of time which runs and runs and cannot escape until it eats its pray. He got to know that only the cleverest player can trick the opponent, so that the game is constantly controlled by the enigmatic movements. But he cannot know when precisely did the mother of fools taught him to hope in the right choices. He believes now that only pictures can keep people alive. And though he knows that he somehow has a knack for survival, there is no such thing as everlasting luck.

It trembles from time to time. And he trembles, too.

iii.

He smokes his cigarette while standing on the edge of the pavement, waiting to make his way across the street. Grayish moths are flying lethargic-like around the streetlamps as if they were looking for a place to warm their frozen wings. And as he stands there, he observes how driving-by cars shatter the mirrors of puddles into millions of splinters that paint the roads into sky-coloured dots.

He turns his head into both directions. As he walks, he bows his head and sees that mud settled itself in the curve of his black military boots. He smiles and then pats his right pocket to check whether his wand is still present in there. He absent-mindedly and tirelessly fights with loose locks of his shiny hair that refuse to remain stuck behind his ears.

He finds himself in front of the tall wooden door. And he wonders what is he doing there. He has not come to that place since his sixth year. Perhaps, he thinks, it is because of this trembling, this shuddering. Maybe it does indeed shake him up. He can almost imagine him crumbling inside.

It is not about missing or longing. It is all about expecting for something new to happen. And though memories or thoughts are like cigarette smoke — they do not weight anything, they tend to be a burden. He knows it all too well. And if a feeling of another person's breath on your neck is enough to feel calmer and not uncertain, then it means that the capacity of private emptiness expands like a boundless universe.

iv.

The moon was in anorexic state. Although, it was almost dawning, the small silvery lunate-like shape could be still visible. Stars were burning out and he could easily count them all now. But, of course, there was no point in doing so. He listens to Remus' quiet snoring in the room nearby and chuckles. It has always made him laugh. He bends his back in an uncomfortable sort of way and tries to write something on papers laying on his knees.

He does not care anymore about his fingers being stained with black ink. He doesn't mind scruffiness so much anymore, though sometimes it really disturbs his inborn Black dignity. He hopes there will be time to be all elegant and smug again. He hopes there will be time to be reckless again. But not now. There would be certainly time for long sleeping hours, careless celebrating, love.. — he laughs. Not now.

He blows out the small flame inside his oil lamp. It's almost pearly white outside. He stands up, straightens his long legs and sore back. He heaves a deep sigh and shakes his head. He is strong and poised. He has to be.

But it doesn't mean that you can't feel him tremble.


End file.
